


His Mug is on the Table

by sunnykyo



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Living Together, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:09:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27143644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnykyo/pseuds/sunnykyo
Summary: In which Bokuto refuses to move on without a fight_________________________________________________“Ji, I love you.”A yawn. “Why so suddenly?”“I just felt like saying it.”“I love you too” He hears the shifting of bedsheets. “More than life.”
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 23
Kudos: 53





	His Mug is on the Table

**Author's Note:**

  * For [@sweepyuwu](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=%40sweepyuwu).



> A request from @sweepyuwu on Twitter

  
  


_“You know, my mom used to say that I should always say ‘I love you’ before leaving just in case something happens,” Bokuto says. He’s young. It’s spring. The vague smell of change is around the corner._

_Akaashi looks at him, fond. “You say it all the time anyway.”_

_“Maybe I just love you that much, no matter what happens.”_

_“No matter what?”_

_“No matter what.”_

  
  


Akaashi’s mug was still on the table.

And Bokuto wakes up to 10 missed calls and a text preview of a friend saying that they’re coming over. He flips his phone, screen side down before he stares at his empty bedroom. He keeps waking up in the center of the bed these days, body already accustomed to the extra space. He thinks that Akaashi was right when he said that ‘ _A king sized bed is too big, Kou._ ’ He didn’t feel it then but he sure as hell felt it now. 

He hears his bones pop as he stands. It’s the first sound to echo in this household. The floorboards are cold underneath his feet. If he listened close enough he might hear _“Kou, wear something warm on your feet”_ but it’s quite muffled so he keeps on walking barefoot for a chance to hear that warning clearly again.

It’s been like that everyday—a simple game of chance. If he walked barefoot, would he hear familiar scolding? If he slept long enough, would someone come to wake him? If he slept with the blanket off of his body, would someone tuck him in with a light kiss on his cheek. If he were to feel cold—every sort of cold that a human can possibly feel—how long before warmth comes back to settle in his bones? All of it relied on _chance..._ or at least he thinks so...he was completely robbed of it the last time. 

Bokuto sits on the kitchen island. He watches Akaashi’s mug that still remains on the table, watches as if it’d be able to move on its own but nothing ever comes from his stare. He takes a sip from his own mug, makes it a loud one so he hears something other than his internal monologue. The silence was too much. The echoes were too soft. The ghosts continue to haunt. 

Lately, he’s been thinking about moving to a noisier and smaller space but that’d mean he’d have to leave—-and leaving meant...

He lets himself be haunted. 

“Bokuto? We’re here.” Right. Kuroo had the spare key. 

The sound of a voice he wasn’t waiting for is a sound he never thought he’d hate—well, he never really thought that he was capable of feeling hatred at all and yet here he sat with that very feeling swirling in his gut, the unkempt rage, the bitter regret, the—

“Weather’s been moody lately.” 

Bokuto clenches his jaw, doesn’t move even as Daichi and Kuroo enter the room. He’s still not used to foreign bodies coming into this space. “Hey, want some tea?”

“We’re fine,” Daichi says, polite. 

Kuroo doesn’t say anything, simply scans the room with a deep frown. “Any plans today?” 

“No, not really.” He used to be viewed as somewhat of an idiot in high school and it was easy that way, but he could never fool Kuroo, and Daichi was never one to stay in the preambles of someone’s life so of course Daichi knows, only pretends that he doesn’t. 

“Your apartment’s a mess.” This again. It’s their usual script.

“Haven’t had the time to clean.” 

Daichi gives him a look. “Well...you don’t have any plans today.” 

The tension bleeds into the room to create static friction among them and not one among the three tries to make it dissipate. It would be suffocating but Bokuto has already learned what losing life felt like, this is simply a hiccup compared to that.

“Daichi and I can help you clean.” 

“No, it’s...” Bokuto bristles at the sight of Kuroo’s hand nearing Akaashi’s mug. He stands, the chair scratching on floorboards. “Kuroo, if you touch that I will break your fucking hand.” 

Kuroo sighs, hesitating before shoving his hands in his pockets. “Let’s cut this shit out then.”

Daichi, sensing what’s about to come, tries....just _tries._ “Kur—” 

“Why didn’t you come today?” Kuroo asks, cold. 

“I’m not needed there.” 

“It’s his fucking death anniversary.”

Bokuto stares at him. “It’s not something I celebrate.” 

“His parents asked me where you were, Koutarou.” Kuroo had always been patient but his frustration bleeds out. It’s probably because of what ‘today’ meant. “What the hell do I answer to that?”

“That I’m fine,” Bokuto says, feigning ease. “That I don’t need help anymore.” 

Daichi cuts Kuroo off before anything escalates, except, he might be just as cutting without realizing it. There’s a certain edge to gentleness that Bokuto can no longer handle. “We can’t help you if you don’t help yourself.” 

“Then, don’t,” Bokuto snaps. “I never asked for your help.”

“You _selfish_ —-” Daichi puts a hand on Kuroo’s chest, stares at him until he takes a deep breath. 

Kuroo takes a step back, fingers going through his hair. It’s this familiar pattern of bordering on argument and then slowly fading back that makes Bokuto feel what little _aliveness_ he had that’s left in him. When Kuroo looks at him again, his shoulders are set high with tension and his eyebrows twitch with the need for inner control. “He’s dead.” 

“I know.” 

Kuroo nears him, doesn’t let any of their competitive gazes fall. “Akaashi Keiji is dead.” 

Bokuto watches Kuroo wince at his own words, he’s sure he mirrored that same reaction. “I live with that everyday, Kuroo. _I know.”_

“Do you really?” Daichi asks, gazes at Akaashi’s mug on the table. “Since that day, nothing in here has changed.” 

“Why does it have to?” Bokuto sighs, sitting back down. He keeps his hands from fidgeting by holding his mug. 

The silence would have consumed them had Daichi not moved forward. “I’ll make some tea.”

Bokuto's gaze snaps to him, abrupt with venom seeping in his tongue but Daichi waves him off easily. 

“I won’t touch anything unnecessary.” 

Kuroo leans against the kitchen island, back towards Bokuto as he takes in more and more of what the apartment looked like. The ends of the white curtains had already greyed and the creases of the couch pillows somehow looked like it was cemented there. The jacket on the arm rest of the couch still remained, practically an ornament. There is a pair of glasses on an open book left on the carpet at the foot of the sofa, but neither ghost nor Bokuto needed any sort of lens to see this makeshift memorial. 

It’s as if Akaashi Keiji was buried in two places and not one. 

___________________

It’s chilly autumn when Bokuto frowns at the coldness of his seat.

“Hate the seat already?” Akaashi’s voice comes smoothly in his earshot and Bokuto immediately turns to smile. The wooden seat creaks as Akaashi sits, mug in his hands held like a lifeline. 

“It’s just....” he shifts. “...a little cold.” 

“I told you you could buy any chair you wanted.” From where Bokuto sat, he can smell the mint of Akaashi’s shampoo.

He pouts. “I wanted to match with your seat but match in an unmatched sort of way.” 

“It’s ridiculous.” 

“It’s _us.”_

“As seats?” 

“As...sets...assets...a set? We’re _a set._ ”

Akaashi shakes his head before he leans forward to cup Bokuto’s cheek. “Love you even though you’re—”

“Ridiculous?” Bokuto grins at him, holds the hand on his cheek before pressing a kiss on its palm. “I love you.” 

He rolls his eyes.

“Ji, I’ve been thinking.”

“Terrifying.” 

“You think the sun would be my biggest competitor?” 

Akaashi gives him a look of confusion. Bokuto watches it melt away into certainty. “Are you jealous? Koutarou, I can’t fall in love with a celestial body.” 

“Hey, you’re the one that told me that I’m a star.” Bokuto makes a big motion with his arm. “That guy’s my biggest competitor.”

“I’m sure the sun fears your...beam.” Akaashi’s voice was so soft. He wanted to listen to him talk forever. “Nothing to worry about.” 

“You think?”

“Mmm.”

Their intertwined fingers rest on the table, their free hand holding onto their own mugs. Bokuto loves to do that thing—-that _thing_ where he squeezes Akaashi’s hand and lets his thumb brush against his knuckles in idle meaningless patterns. He’d catch the soft sigh that follows and then Akaashi’s gaze would lift from his mug to Bokuto’s eyes. He once thought that if he stared into that gunmetal blue long enough, he’d feel the chill of winter by the sea but the chill never comes. There is only warmth. 

Bokuto watches Akaashi look around. Their apartment was incomplete and still had the faint scent of new paint. They didn’t buy enough curtains so their living room is half bare and there’s nothing in their kitchen but a complete set of knives due to Bokuto’s insistence of ‘ _slicing the perfect salmon slices’._ There are boxes upon boxes by the doorway, left behind after Akaashi nearly blinds himself with his own sweat and Bokuto almost pulling a hamstring with the effort to keep Akaashi from carrying the heavy boxes. Why did this damn apartment not have an elevator?

“Where do we go after this?” 

If it were any other person that asked, Bokuto would suggest a place but this was his Keiji and he knew exactly what he meant. “We have our whole lives to find out.” 

Pursed lips. “I don’t like the unknown.” 

“I know,” Bokuto says, nodding. “But you know me so that’s at least one familiar thing in your future.” 

Akaashi smiles once again, squeezing his hand. “One lifetime at a time?” 

Bokuto laughs lightly. “One hour at a time, a day, a month, a year, or a lifetime. You’re free to choose.” 

The corners of Akaashi’s eyes crinkle as he giggles. He laughs like a shy child and Bokuto can’t help but want to protect him. “This lifetime is ours.” 

“It’s ours.”

Akaashi smiles behind his mug.

  
  
  


___________________

It was cloudy.

Akaashi’s mug was still on the table, under a pocket of shadow. 

Bokuto wakes up on the couch in cold sweat. He turns and immediately fixes the jacket on the arm rest. It’s a confusing routine and he doesn’t know how to feel or what to feel or even if this was the right thing to do, he just knows that if he doesn’t fix Akaashi’s jacket it’ll haunt him. 

“Good morning.” 

Bokuto’s heart almost stops. “Ji?” 

“Sadly, no,” the voice has a body and it was Kuroo’s. 

The pretenses fall when the information sinks in and he ends up burying his face in his hands. “Fuck.” 

“You gave me the spare key so.” He doesn’t have to look to know that Kuroo’s shrugging. “I made you tea.” 

“Did you—”

“I used your mug and I didn’t touch his things.” 

Bokuto looks up, gives him a hard glare. “I was going to ask if you added honey.” 

Kuroo snorts. “Shit.” 

He leans back, suppressing a sigh. He quietly sips on his tea, doesn’t wince at the bitterness of it. His sense of taste has numbed to anything of satisfaction or dissatisfaction. He doesn’t consume to enjoy, he just consumes enough in order to live this lifetime. “It’s tea.” 

“Yeah? Good to know.” 

“Did you come here to nag me again?” 

Kuroo hums. “My very presence already bothers you. I don’t have to do anything else.” 

It’s not that he was annoying or bothersome, it’s just that Kuroo is foreign in this place where time has stopped. He didn’t fit the dusty curtains nor the untouched mug on the table, he was new and he was a time traveler sitting next to Bokuto on the couch. He has moved on with time while Bokuto’s calendar still remains one year late. “We gave you that key for emergencies.”

“The word ‘emergency’ needs a clear definition.” 

Bokuto lets out a pathetic nose laugh. “You’re different but you still say the same dumb stuff.” 

”And talking to you feels like I’m talking to someone else so that’s fair.” Bokuto doesn’t give him a reply, continues to ‘enjoy’ his tea. “Fine. I came here to nag at you.” 

“I had a feeling.” He inches away from him, creates more space in between them. “I wish you’d just get mad or hit me, at least then we’d both get what we want.”

“A little worrisome there, Taro.” 

“I don’t take it back.” 

Kuroo stares at him with pursed lips, as if he wanted to say something impulsive but is in control enough to hold himself back. The fact that he held a certain facade during work must have shaped his sense of control even more but, even so, it was rare for Bokuto to trigger any sort of anger control in Kuroo when they both were so accustomed to yelling at each other even in a joking manner. 

“What if you just...go out tonight?” 

“To where?”  
  


_“Where do we go after this?”_

_“We have our whole lives to find out.”_

  
  
  


“Anywhere just go out and have fun.” A pause. “Absolutely do not do a pilgrimage of all the places you and Akaashi used to go to.”

Bokuto looks away from him. “I wouldn’t go there even if you forced me.”

“He won’t be there, you know.”

“The problem is I’m _hoping_ he will be.” 

“Shrimpy has managed to go back to Rio, even brought Kenma with him. They say the change of scenery helps.” 

“I’m happy for them” He figures ‘happy’ is the right word to say. “It’s nice that everyone’s moved on.” 

“So why won’t you?” 

Why won’t he? 

He knows exactly _why_ —he knows why Akaashi’s mug is still on the table, knows why the white curtains remain unchanged, and he knows why every time he even thinks of being happy there’s only guilt coming back to claw him down a dark pit of nothing. How long has this version of himself existed, it must have turned one years old already. He no longer resembles the man he used to be and he feels this with every forsaken day that passes him by. 

And if Akaashi were to live again, to come home to this mess of a man that his death had caused—what then? Bokuto is sure that he’d love him still (he always will) but for Akaashi to love him back would be some sort of miracle. His muscles had long since atrophied due to his stagnancy and that old lively Bokuto has wasted away along with it— _but he’d beg_ . Bokuto would beg for him to stay, even if it was just so he can hear him breathing. He’d beg for him to cry just like a baby’s first sign of life, he’d beg for him to laugh. He’d beg for a reason. He wanted some sort of _reason._

“I wish I were fucking dead.” 

“Bokuto.” 

He shakes his head. “Sorry...sorry...that came out of nowhere. I swear I’m fine.” 

Kuroo frowns, about to reach for him but stops himself. “You can talk to me.” 

Bokuto finally looks at him. He sees a small amount of desperation and pain but Bokuto feels nothing. He knows how hard Kuroo is trying, he knows just how difficult he is to handle especially during the first months but...he doesn’t _care._ His empathy has turned into apathy since long ago. There’s nothing, there’s nothing more to waste away. 

“Bokuto, please talk to me.” 

It’s rare to hear Kuroo plead so Bokuto takes pity on him, he stands and heads for the bedroom. “I’m gonna go get dressed. I’ll do what you asked.” 

“Bokuto—”

“It’ll help.” Bokuto hears Kuroo’s deep sigh. 

He feels nothing. 

___________________

  
  


It’s amazing just how much Bokuto is capable of feeling. 

“Koutarou,” Akaashi says, fondness seeping into his voice. When he uses ‘Koutarou’ instead of ‘Kou’, he’s supposed to be mad but he’s never reached that point at all. 

Bokuto had his arms wrapped around Akaashi's waist, face buried in his stomach. He felt so warm and he smelled like coffee. He smelled like Sunday morning. “Hmm?” 

“I have to work.” 

Bokuto looks up at him, pouting. “But I missed you.” 

“You took a nap,” Akaashi laughs, leaning down to kiss his nose. 

And even in his nap, he can hear Akaashi’s soft humming around the apartment. In his unconscious state, there is still him. He wonders if there will ever be a time where it’s not. He’s sure that time will never come. He won’t let it. “When’s the deadline?” 

Akaashi gives him a look that means he’s about to say ‘you’re ridiculous’ but it was also a look that meant that he’s about to give in if Bokuto says the right thing. “Soon.” 

Bokuto smirks, pulling him down on the couch. “No it’s not.” 

Akaashi laughs again, shifts so that he’s lying down on the couch with Bokuto trapping him in between the backrest and his chest. “Why ask when you already know my schedule?” 

He shrugs, simply squirms until he feels like he’s holding Akaashi in a way that feels right. “I like listening to your heartbeat.” 

“Yeah? What does it sound like?” 

_Like safety._

_Like security._

_Like love lives within._

“Um...doki doki?” 

_Like you’re always telling me you love me with each beat._

A snort. 

Bokuto closes his eyes, listens to Akaashi’s heartbeat even more. He unconsciously presses his ear further into Akaashi’s chest, wanting to hear more of it—if possible, he’d drown in it. He’s sure that his own heart beat will match his lover’s pace. It’s this simple tranquil act that makes Bokuto feel as if he was invincible, as if nothing could ever break him. He wonders if he can remember this sound and this feeling, encase it somewhere within him so that he never has to forget.

_THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP_

His fingers act on their own accord, tracing lazy circles on the skin of Akaashi’s hip. He looks up to quietly ask for permission but sees that it’s already been granted. Akaashi cups his face as Bokuto crawls upwards to meet his lips. It’s been a while since they’ve held each other. 

When he removes Akaashi’s shirt, he takes his time marvelling him. His body was made for art museums, his beauty was heaven’s creation. Akaashi is looking away, his ears and cheeks tinted pink with shyness. “You’re right, Ji, white curtains will help me see better.”

Bokuto smiles more to himself than to anyone else, plants kisses from Akaashi’s navel to his chest to his neck—he wants to make sure that more love grows there. 

“Keiji,” he whispers, lips brushing against Akaashi’s ear. His name felt like something bigger than the both of them combined. It almost felt sacred. 

When Bokuto handles him, he handles him gently. He makes sure that his touches are just enough for it to burn but not harm, enough to ground but never shackle. He whispers sweet _somethings_ in his ear, loves how Akaashi trembles against him when he’s overwhelmed with everything that he’s receiving. When Bokuto sits up to look down and gaze at Akaashi in his most vulnerable entirety, he knows that this person is someone precious to him. 

“Kou...”

And, when he calls, Bokuto answers. He takes Akaashi in his arms, holds him and treasures him. The smell of Akaashi’s shampoo and soap is sure to stick onto his skin, his touch somewhat like a label he’d love to keep forever. 

In his entirety, Bokuto lives for him.

  
  


___________________

  
  


There’s someone talking to him but he doesn’t pay any mind, thoughts elsewhere. 

There’s not one mug in his near vicinity.

No white curtains.

No jacket.

No dishes.

Bokuto finds himself sticking onto the leather couch with a burn in his throat. He chases it down with more fire. He’s trying to see just how long before he becomes ash. The whiskey tasted cheap and the ice didn’t seem right. He doesn’t know how it was so, he just knew somehow that nothing was right.

“So, what are you doing here?” 

He’s right. 

What _was_ Bokuto doing here?

The place was much too dark and laced with the smoke of cigars, Akaashi’s asthma could never handle such a place. The music was too loud for anyone to hear their thoughts or their ghosts. There’s a hand on his thigh and it was smaller than the one he was used to and the owner of this hand neither smelled like linen nor coffee nor home. There was nothing about this place that resembled anything in his life—or what used to be there.

So, really, what was he doing here?

The lights switch from a piercing blue to a deep red, pulsing with every beat of the song. The crowd’s movements start to shift from swaying to jumping and general chaos. It seems like he’s entered a certain kind of hell—Akaashi would never be in a place like this, he’d never be the type to descend to hell. 

He takes another swig of his drink, letting it burn. Bokuto drinks more and more and more of it until the feeling of burning increases as if he burns from the inside out. There are memories and Akaashi’s different voices all stirring in his head, playing in sad notes—the notes simply fall to feed the fire within. It scorches. It’s merciless. How long ‘til he runs out of fuel for this fire? 

It’s almost as if hell isn’t below nor is it around but nestled deep within Bokuto. The angry shouts he releases in the middle of the night when it’s all too much are the imitations of the many memories— _the very soul of his_ —that’s dying inside. But was his soul not already 6 feet under decomposing with the roses and the tears that once watered the soil that surrounds him. 

Again, what was Bokuto doing here? 

“I don’t know.” 

“I guess, you don’t really need to know.” This stranger’s eyes were a shade of gunmetal blue, his hair an inky black. He looked a little like Akaashi—smiled a little like him too. Bokuto doesn’t blink for fear of breaking the illusion he’s set up for himself. 

Akaashi’s asthma could never handle this place.

This was not his Keiji. 

Still, Bokuto kisses him. 

He kisses him until somehow the red lights turn into the sickly yellow of apartment lights and it wasn’t a leather couch underneath him but worn out bedsheets and the smell of cheap detergent. The stranger pauses in the middle of uncapping the lube, looks at him a little with pity but more so with understanding. If Bokuto wasn’t drunk, he’d have shouted at him ‘til the pity turns into offense, he doesn’t care much of what that look would turn into—-just _not_ pity. 

“I’ll stretch myself.” A pause. “Later, you can call out his name if you want.” 

How much has he opened up to this stranger? He can’t remember. He’s sure he was closed off this whole time. Bokuto, at this moment, only knows that ‘Akaashi Keiji’ is more of a prayer than a name. Hell is not a place for prayers. “I’m not going to.” 

“Call mine then.” 

Bokuto doesn’t even know his name, doesn’t care for it. It’s just a name. It’s nothing. “I’m not calling out any names tonight.” 

The stranger snorts a little. “I see. When I invited you here, I expected a person. I didn’t expect some sort of baggage.” 

“Not like I’ll share any of this burden with you.” 

A smirk. “Then let me do what I can to comfort you tonight, _Bokuto-san.”_

This was not Akaashi. 

This was not his Keiji.

But he loses himself.

Later, when he comes into consciousness and it fully sinks in, Bokuto runs to the bathroom and wretches. The summary of last night suddenly flushed down the toilet. The regret pools in his stomach in continuous and copious amounts. He tastes the bitterness of his bile and wonders how he could touch someone so easily like that? How could he just forget Akaashi in not just an hour but five? He can’t forget him, he _won’t._ He won’t lose him for a second time. 

He doesn’t leave a note nor a glance. 

He leaves in entirety. 

  
  
  
  
  


___________________

  
  
  
  
  


“How long will you be gone?” 

Bokuto forcefully stuffs a shirt in his bag. “Just a week. Why?” 

Akaashi doesn’t answer. 

Bokuto turns to him. He tries to take in his reaction but nothing alarms him enough for him to show concern. “Are you gonna miss me, Jiji?” 

Akaashi doesn’t answer. He looks around a little before walking toward Bokuto, wraps him in a slow but tight hug. “Hurry back.” 

“You know I’ll run back here to you.” 

Akaashi started to move more slowly as Bokuto’s date of departure neared. He’d gaze at him for prolonged periods of time, hold him in long increments, and talk to him as if every word had to take a second to form. He’d say ‘I love you’ more vocally, an additional to the ‘I love you’ that his actions showed. He was always more clingy before Bokuto leaves for a match and Bokuto treasures those moments the most. 

When they have sex the night before he leaves, Bokuto wonders why every kiss felt like he’s trying to say the things he couldn’t when there’s daylight. But nothing was wrong—nothing seemed wrong. Akaashi would laugh like usual and work like usual so why did tonight seem rather different? How come his eyes seemed like closed windows? 

Bokuto sits up, holds Akaashi’s waist to make him stop his movements. “Ji, is everything okay?” 

“Of course,” Akaashi says, legs trembling to support his weight. “Why...in the middle of this?” 

Bokuto pushes Akaashi’s hair back, wanting to see his eyes more. “It’s different.” 

“I’m just going to miss you.” 

“Should I stay?”

“No, Kou, you—”

“I will stay. If you want me to stay, I will. It’s just a match. I can go next time when you’re feeling better.” 

"What's with that? I'm fine," Akaashi laughs, shakes his head. Then, more gently. “I’m fine, Kou.”

“Ji.” 

“How precious of you to overthink in my place." Bokuto pouts a little. "And even if something wasn't fine, you don’t have to pause your life for me.” 

Bokuto searches for answers. There is none. “If you tell me to come back immediately, I will.”

Akaashi smiles, leans forward to kiss him. “I know, Kou.” 

  
  
  
  
  


Akaashi _does_ call—he calls every night. He would always ask how his day went, how he was and if the weather there was nice. Bokuto can’t help but feel the need to lengthen the call, to hear his voice more. He sleeps with his phone pressed on his ear. He doesn’t miss even one breath. _He wants to come home._

“Ji, I love you.”

A yawn. “Why so suddenly?” 

“I just felt like saying it.” 

“I love you too” He hears the shifting of bedsheets. “More than life.” 

“I’ll come home soon.” 

“I know. I ordered cow tongue for your coming home dinner.” 

“You’re the best.” 

He hears Akaashi’s childish giggle.

  
  
  


[To Kuroo: Can you check up on Keiji tomorrow?]

[Fr Kuroo: I can’t tomorrow, I’ll drop by the next day]

[To Kuroo: That’s fine]

  
  
  


It’s after his shower that he finds out. 

Thirty missed calls both from Kuroo and Daichi. He feels his fingers numb at the sight of the number. He knows that it isn’t good. He knows that whatever it was, it won’t be something easy. Did Akaashi get hurt? Did he fall while changing a light bulb? Did he burn the house down? What happened?

“Kuroo? Sorry I was in the shower.” 

“It’s Akaashi he....” 

He feels his conscious mind get ejected from his body, like suddenly he didn’t own a physical body. He doesn’t feel the phone drop from his hands, only hears it make a thud. He doesn’t remember that he only has a robe on, simply rushes to pack all of his things. _Fuck the match. Fuck the competition. Fuck everything else._

It’s as if the world around him was crumbling down and he could do nothing but try to pack his things and leave as soon as he can. But he can’t seem to remember where he put his charger or where he placed his dirty clothes. He knows that he knows where it is but he just can’t recall anything. There’s just _Keiji Keiji Keiji Keiji_ with nothing to follow the thought. He throws everything down onto the floor, chooses to pace. If he paced fast enough would he be able to catch his breath or his thoughts? 

What happened? 

Akaashi was okay just a night ago.

Just a night ago, he had told him he loved him.

Just a night ago, he had ordered cow tongue. 

So what happened? 

Why was he returning to a home without a soul? 

He wanted to call him so he did. 

It was all a lie...maybe. 

It was just a joke....maybe. 

  
  
  


_“Hi! Sorry I can’t answer the phone right no—AKASHI I LOVE Y—I’m quite busy so please call me back later.”_

  
  


Again.

Again. 

Again.

Call again. 

Nothing.

_Nothing._

**_Nothing._ **

The cow tongue arrives, good for two people but he’s now just one.

Akaashi’s jacket hung on the couch’s arm rest. 

Akaashi’s mug was on the table.

  
  
  


___________________

  
  
  
  


Bokuto knocks on an unfamiliar door. 

Kuroo is the one that answers. “Taro...”

“Can I borrow your shower?” Bokuto refuses to make eye contact when he so obviously stinks of another person’s perfume. 

Kuroo nods and moves aside to let him in. Bokuto knows that he’s probably figured out what had already happened but neither of them acknowledge this fact. “I still have some of your old clothes here, I’ll prepare some just go ahead.” 

“Okay.”

“Bokuto, is there anything else you want?” 

Bokuto swallows, hard. It’s the first time in a while that he’s going to shower in a place that wasn’t his and Akaashi’s apartment. There are echoes in his mind. “Can you....can you just talk while I’m in the shower?”

“What about?”

“Anything just...talk _at_ me, doesn’t have to be with me.” 

As it turns out, a shower is less intimidating if you had Kuroo recite the periodic table front to back and probably even alphabetically. It was almost like a drone of a non-annoying fly. Bokuto wasn’t able to let the thoughts seep into him, not when ‘ _Did you know Marie Curie and all of her things are still radioactive? That’s why her coffin is lined with an inch of lead’,_ which, Bokuto has to admit, was kind of interesting. 

“How was your shower?”

Bokuto shakes the wetness out of his hair. “Educational. When I asked you to talk, I meant about your day at least.” 

“Wasn’t that more fun though?” Kuroo hands him a mug of tea. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to hear about me and Tsukki.” 

“Don’t you live together? Am I intruding?” 

“We had a fight and he’s sleeping at his brother’s house right now.” Bokuto gives him a look. “Those are not related. He planned to sleep there before we fought, okay?” 

“I wasn’t even saying anything.” Bokuto takes a sip of the tea. It was sweet. He finds himself taking another. “Did you tell him you love him?”

“What?”

“Before he left, did you tell him you love him?” 

Kuroo tilts his head. “I don’t think I did....but I can tell him when he comes back.” 

Bokuto looks away. “You’re lucky enough to be with him, you should’ve just stopped him from leaving.” 

He places his mug on the kitchen counter, crossing his arms. “That doesn’t seem like it’s about me and Tsukki.” 

He gives him nothing.

“Who were you with a while ago?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Kuroo bites his inner cheek, eyebrows furrowing. “Taro, you came here at 4 in the morning, you can’t expect me to not ask.” 

“I don’t know.”

“ _Bokuto.”_

“Jesus. I told you. I don’t fucking know who he was. You’d be better off asking me what the hell he looked like.”

He raises a brow. 

Bokuto’s shoulders are set high with tension. “Black hair...blue eyes.” 

Kuroo takes a deep breath. “So....you fucked someone that looked like Keiji?” 

“Don’t,” Bokuto says, fingers raking through his hair. 

“Don’t _what?”_ Kuroo braced himself against the kitchen island. If there was nothing in the middle of them he was sure he would’ve tried to physically shake Bokuto to try and snap him out of whatever it was. “Don’t tell you that what you did was unhealthy?”

Bokuto turns away, puts some more space in between them. “Don’t you think I know how disgusting that was? But, hey, you told me a change of scenery would be nice.” 

“I meant a fucking restaurant, the mall, or the fucking park.” He’s exploding. “Not someone else’s body. Are you fucking kidding me right now? Are you blaming me?” 

“No, not you,” Bokuto says, a little quiet. Bokuto would like to blame him but there’s been so much of that already and he can’t spare more for anyone else when every ounce of it he’s already given to— “Myself. I blame myself for everything.” 

Silence.

“Why I didn’t stay, why he’s dead, why he’s gone, why I fucked someone I don’t even know, why his fucking mug is still on that table—all of it.... _me.”_ Bokuto fixes his gaze on Kuroo. “The reason his parents live in denial, the reason you have to check on me, the reason I’m here at four in the fucking morning...me. It’s just me. There’s no one else to fucking blame.” 

What Bokuto didn’t expect was to see Kuroo look at him with the most rage filled eyes. “You think...that was all on you? You think I don’t blame myself for not checking up on him earlier?”

“That’s....different.”

“How is it different?” No answer. “ _How._ I had to call Daichi because I didn’t know what to fucking do when I saw him. I had to be the one to tell you. Tell me, why can't I be just as guilty as you?” 

“I told you, it’s different.” 

“Different?” Kuroo’s laugh sounded borderline maniacal. “Tell. Me. How.” 

Silence. 

“How...how are you ANY FUCKING DIFFERENT from the rest of us?” 

**“Because I should have fucking known.”** Then, softly yet somehow louder. " _I should have known."_

Kuroo lets the booming words sink in. His anger immediately dissipates. It’s not because of what Bokuto just said, it’s the fact that he’s finally talking about it. He’s never once given any reason for his actions nor has he ever fully acknowledged what happened but tonight his eyes looked red from the effort to not cry. Kuroo walks past the kitchen island, lets himself stand a few feet away from Bokuto. He approaches him as if he were a scared animal ready to flee.

“You couldn’t have known something like that.”

“I knew him best, Kuroo. I knew him the most.” The pain, all of it, starts to overflow again. Suddenly, it’s like touching Akaashi’s cold skin. “I read him so easily. I knew how he felt. I knew what he liked. I knew.... _I knew him._ ” 

“Bokuto...”

There’s not a bandage big enough to cover this fresh wound, no amount of disinfectant can stop the heart clenching infection. This is the longest he’s tried to ‘walk off’ an injury but it never seemed to go away. How long has he been like this? How long has he been breaking what’s already injured? Bokuto lets it out, lets it all out. He bleeds in front of Kuroo, unashamed.

“And suddenly he takes himself away from me—-from all of us. _Fuck.”_ He tries to breathe. “So how much of it was a lie? What did I really know? Did I really fucking know him?” 

Silence. 

“None of it ever made sense to me.” Bokuto can hear his voice cracking. “He ordered cow tongue, Kuroo. It was supposed to be our dinner for when I returned but I had to eat it alone. I couldn’t even stomach it. It was supposed to be....it was _our_ fucking dinner. Why...if he wanted to live until having dinner with me that means he didn’t originally want to die...he didn’t want to fucking die so...why?” 

Kuroo tries to reach out to him but retracts. He doesn’t know if it was okay to touch him. 

“Even if you stayed, how would we know if he wouldn’t attempt on another night?”

“Then at least he’d have had dinner with me,” Bokuto says, the exhaustion scraping at his bones. “And then we’d have breakfast, then lunch, and then dinner again.”

In between those meals, they’d watch a movie or read a book or work in the same space. In between the movie watching, the reading, and the working, they’d hold hands and kiss and cuddle. In between all those moments, maybe Akaashi wouldn’t have found a second to do it nor the time to think about it. Bokuto likes to think that each of those moments would have all added up and equate to one lifetime together. 

If only Akaashi stayed until dinner. 

If only Bokuto stayed at all. 

“He said he was alright, he said he’d call me if he had a problem.” He’s choking. “I would’ve come home to him. If he told me anything at all, I would have dropped everything. He didn’t...he didn’t give me a chance. He didn’t give me a clue. He gave me all of his life and all of his love and then fucking disappeared.” 

He probably sounds redundant and crazy, he doesn’t care. 

“On our last phone call, I didn’t tell him that I love him.” Bokuto can hear how lifeless he sounded. He might as well be buried next to his lover. “I fell asleep.” 

Kuroo didn’t look at him with pity. He only looked as if he was feeling Bokuto’s pain. _Finally, not pity._

He laughs at himself, self-hatred lacing the humorless laugh. “Can you believe that? I... _I fell asleep.”_

Bokuto aggressively wipes his eyes, tries to loosen the clench on his chest by breathing.

“So before he died...did he know? Did he know just how much I love him? I should have said ‘I love you’ I should’ve—-”

He continues to wipe his eyes, tries to ignore the overwhelming regret before it drowns him.

“And I try to find something or someone to fucking blame but the one that killed him was himself and I never—” He takes a breath. “I never _ever_ got mad at him. I can never hate him. I can’t feel anything other than love for him. I miss him so much but what do I do with this anger? What the fuck do I do, Kuroo?” 

No words.

“I can’t blame him and I can’t blame anyone...”

“So you blame yourself?” 

Bokuto looks away, confirming it. He crumbles, sits on the ground as if losing all sense of balance. “If he shared his burdens with me...if I even offered to carry them then maybe he’d still be here.”

Kuroo sits beside him. He doesn’t do anything, just quietly watches him. 

“Kuroo, every day I feel like I want to die.” 

There are a lot of emotions passing through Bokuto, some he can’t read and some he’s already tried to process but none of it made sense. The only thing that made sense was— “I miss him so much. Everyday. I miss him every day. I love him every day.” 

  
  


_No matter what?_

_No matter what._

  
  


Bokuto finally allows himself to cry.

Fully. 

He lets it overflow. 

Memories of Akaashi keep pouring into him in carefully stitched vignettes. There are memories of laughing and holding each other. He also remembers their fights, when Akaashi cries after getting upset or when Bokuto has to walk out to cool his head but none of that seemed like a bad memory anymore because it was always followed by gentle apologies and soft kisses. How is it that no relationship is perfect yet he feels like they were the first ones to achieve something close to that? If he had the chance to do it all over again, to be happy, to fight, to make up, to hold each other—he’d do it all over again and, in that do-over, he’d choose to stay.

_He’d just want to stay._

Kuroo’s arm finally settles around his shoulders. It felt warm. It felt like the comfort he needed. This is what he needed. 

They sat like that for a long time, no one really was keeping track of the minutes and the hours that passed but they knew that their tea was cold and the sun was rising. Kuroo’s hold on him never loosened, not even for a minute. Bokuto hasn’t cried in a while, the last was when they buried Akaashi six feet under and, after that, he completely shut everything off. He tastes the salt of his tears. He can finally taste something. 

When he calms down, he lifts his head to look at Kuroo. “I’m sorry.”

Kuroo squeezes his shoulder in response.

Everything wasn't fixed, he still didn't feel 'okay'—'better' was a more fitting word. It was to be expected. But in these few drops of softened light, he thinks that maybe something good was finally possible. 

“I don’t think I want to lose him a second time, Kuroo. I won’t stop mourning.” Bokuto fiddles with his fingers, his chest twisting knowing where he got this habit from. “I’m still...in love with him.”

“It’d be ridiculous for you to _not_ be in love with him.” Kuroo’s shoulders were starting to relax. “We’re just telling you to eat three times a day and play volleyball and laugh and take a shower.” 

“You’re telling me to move on.” 

Kuroo looks at him once again. “Moving on doesn’t have to mean losing him, just means you won’t lose yourself.” 

Bokuto doesn’t answer, letting the quiet silence fall upon them in natural descent. There’s not another Akaashi to lose, there are only memories of him that he can keep and Bokuto takes comfort in the fact that all he can do now is _keep keep keep._ He’s selfish, he knows, but now until he can meet him again—he will keep him. 

It’s been a year since Akaashi’s death and today was the first time he’s breathed easily, as if the breath was given and he didn’t have to forcefully take it. It’s also the first time the darkness didn’t make the rooms seem too big and empty. There is his best friend beside him and his lover kept away in his heart. The sky was turning into a sapphire blue to greet the morning, Bokuto feels as if the sun rises today just for him. If Akaashi were here, he’d tell him that the sun was his only competitor but today they will coexist as two stars in orbit. 

  
  


_I miss him every day._

  
  
  


“I’m gonna go home in a bit.” 

Kuroo frowns. “You can go home after you rest.” 

“No, it’s okay.” 

Bokuto has decided. 

It’s time for his body to be unearthed—a few feet at a time.

His empty apartment with only ghosts to welcome him home. He will enter it later, the door responding to him just as usual. The floorboards will creak ‘neath his feet. The coffee will wait to be made. The sheets are unkempt and will remain so ‘till he decides to change them.

And there was a mug on the table, cold and dusty. 

“I need to do the dishes, it’s been piling up.” 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Requested by @sweepyuwu on Twitter 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> Leave a kudos and I'd appreciate comments~


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